


Mantra of Mourning

by theonewithtwo



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, M/M, Off-screen character death (past), Yoga
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:11:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theonewithtwo/pseuds/theonewithtwo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek hears his voice in the morning, when the sun is rising.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mantra of Mourning

**Author's Note:**

> Un-beta'd.

Inspired by this [gifset](http://romy7.tumblr.com/post/46249443519/boys-got-stamina) \+ melancholy.

 

* * *

 

 

           He is awake before the sun can rise fully in the sky.

 

            The concrete floor is cold under his feet as he pads into the barren living room. No carpet, no slippers; he sees no use in luxuries.

 

            _You left the windows open, again._

 

            He pauses before them, watches the day slowly edge its way in with a blinding whiteness. The breeze that filters in raises goose bumps on his skin.

 

            _You know, mornings are way better in bed, with a cup of coffee and snuggling._

 

            Derek kneels, body still stiff with sleep. He leans forward and plants both hands flat against the rough floor. For a moment, he stares at them.

 

            _I think I like you like this._

 

            His fingers tense and nails dig into the concrete as the laugh echoes around him. Derek waits for it to taper off and in one smooth, controlled motion, he raises his bent legs into the air. He rests there for a moment, with the heels of his feet pressed against his bottom, and dwells in the strain of his arms and back.

 

            _Showoff._

 

            His breathing is even and deep.

 

            Finally, he raises his feet into the air. Toes pointed heavenward, he lets his mind empty.

 

            _Hey, do you think we could do a standing-69 like this?_ _Definitely worth a try. Come on, you’re the werewolf; you’ve got the stamina for it!_

 

            A violent tremble shakes through his arms and Derek bares his teeth. He drops his legs a little too fast, and soaks in the dull pain that travels up his legs when the balls of his feet slap into the hard ground.

 

            Derek is motionless, save for the flare of his nostrils as he regains himself, and the drop of sweat that teases over the curve of his chin.

 

            _Want me to lick that off for you?_

 

            He repeats the pose. This time it’s fluid and graceful. But too easy, too painless.

 

            _‘Too painless’? Man, you have serious issues. I’m gonna have to reeducate you. In bed. Now._

 

            Derek drops down to his forearms and arches his feet far over and past his head until his back is screaming in beautiful protest. His breathing is still deep and even, but faster now.

 

            Sweat beads across his torso and slides southward to pool on the small of his back as he lowers himself down and then slides effortless into the next position. He pulls one foot forward to rest between his planted palms and sits into the lunge.

 

            The open windows let in a steady breeze. He shivers, even with his supernatural body heat, because it feels a little too much like fingers ghosting across his skin.

 

            He raises his hands and focuses on a metal beam overhead. There is a crude outline of a bear—

 

            _It’s a wolf, asshole!_

 

            —a wolf, done in sharpie, glaring back at him. Beside it is a much smaller, winking smile. Primitive.

 

            _You like it? Something to remember me by, since you damn werewolves are immune to hickeys._

Derek closes his eyes and stretches a little further.  The burn in his muscles wipes his mind like a soothing cloth over a feverish face.

 

            _Tick-tock_ , _Mr. Hale. I’ve got class in exactly one hour and if you’re not in the shower with me in ten minutes, then it’s your loss._

 

            He goes through the movements, tries to blot out his senses. Derek holds his breath because he can, because the itch in his lungs reminds him that he’s still alive and that’s just one more thing wrong with the world.

           

           He drops down one final time. It is a slow, contained move, and he bends at the elbows until his nose nearly kisses the floor. Derek holds his entire body stiff as a board and parallel to the ground, shaking from the effort.

 

_Derek, it’s not your fault. No one blames you. I don’t, and you shouldn’t, either._

 

           When he can’t hold it in any longer, he expels his breath in a gust that darkens a patch of the concrete with its warmth. Derek presses his forehead to it and lowers his trembling body into a resting bow. One last salutation.

 

_You know I love you, right?_

 

           He presses a kiss to the concrete.

 

           The sun rises above him.

 

 


End file.
